


Praying For A Doorway

by allegheny



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2018 World Series, Angst, Boston Red Sox, Gen, San Diego Padres Gothic Terror, mention of irl family members, no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:13:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegheny/pseuds/allegheny
Summary: The baseball hits Vazquy's glove, and time stops.In that endless, infinite moment, what Ian feels, surprisingly, isn't elation, isn't accomplishment.





	Praying For A Doorway

The baseball hits Vazquy's glove, and time stops. 

In that endless, infinite moment, what Ian feels, surprisingly, isn't elation, isn't accomplishment.  
It's not the pure, all-consuming joy of a walk-off home run. It's not the mellow, chest-melting happiness of holding your newborn child. It's not anything like what he's built it up to be. It's not what he's been waiting for all his life. It's not the resolution, the triumph he was expecting.

Ian feels like he just failed a test.

The whole team springs out of the dugout. Ian's frozen in time. Waiting for something to happen to him.  
He waits for his chest to inflate, but all he feels is a dull, sinking feeling which he takes a few disembodied timeless seconds to recognise.  
It's relief. A bitter kind of relief. An exhale. The exhaling breath of someone who just got away with something. 

He stands there, waiting. Waiting for the euphoria that took over his body at Globe Life back in 2010 to come back knocking, with flowers and a bottle of red, embracing him, "Hey there, old friend. Long time no see. Still got that champagne we didn't get to open last time?". But there's no one at the door.  
Ian's been stood up. 

He's running onto the field with the last stragglers, but it's all reflexes. His mind is somewhere else. He can see everything in slow motion.  
In the pile, the frenzy around him is earth-shattering. A crowd of men lost in bliss.  
Desperately, Ian gropes for it, hoping to get a piece, hoping to fix whatever is going wrong with him. But his hands come up empty. So, in the tangle of bodies, Ian's a pantomime of celebration. 

Sure, he's happy. It's over. He won't be another one of Boston baseball's bête noires. It's over. After twelve years, after two back-to-back losses, after countless glimpses at victory, he just finally won the World Series. He's gonna get a ring. So is Mitch, so is Rick, and Price. And that feels good for sure, but it feels good in the way that good is the opposite of bad.  
It's not what Ian's looking for. 

Something slowly comes over him, finally, as he feels Mitch pull him into a tight, euphoric hug, and he's grateful for the distraction.  
It's impossible not to feel infected by the hysterics around him, and something's better than nothing. For an hour, he's happy enough to touch the trophy and feel his fingertips tickling with recognition, happy enough to feel his throat tighten in achievement, happy enough to make it to the clubhouse celebration. And then he gets drunk, drunker than he's been in years, so drunk he forgets he's not supposed to puff on cigars, so drunk he wheezes all night, so drunk he's drunk enough to fake the elation he's been waiting for. 

He lies down in bed and sleeps blacked out sleep and doesn't remember the following week. 

When he puts pen to paper to sign with the Padres, he recalls a single, particular moment on the field.  
He's standing there, hugging his daughter and son. Squeezing them tight against himself as they wrap their little arms around his hips and shoulders. And they know how much they think this is supposed to mean to him. And they know how long he's wanted this.  
And what he feels right there, is not joy, is not relief, it's the sting of pain, and when he sheds a tear Tess just says that Dad's just happy and he's thankful for her, because he's not happy, he's not placated, he's just sad. 

He's in Dodger Stadium, he just got the thing he's been chasing since he was a kid swinging at backyard throws, since he was a teenager in travel ball, since he was a college kid begging for attention, since he was a twenty-something hustling for his pride, the one thing, the white whale he's been hunting to the knowing detriment of everyone who loves him, the dream that's plagued his life ever since he had to reckon with the crushing, unforgiving cruelty of the game he chose to play for a living one night in October 2011, finally, finally, finally he has it. And all he feels, in Dodger Stadium, with confetti down his shirt and cheering teammates scattered across the field, all he feels is deep, sinking, swirling, spiralling sorrow. 

And he kisses Rian's soft little cheek and she whispers she's proud of him, and he feels so guilty he could just kneel down right there, just fold down and cry, and cry, and cry. 

In the suspended moment before the tip of his fountain pen connects with the contract, the nowhere-nothing of arrested time takes him back to LA's visiting dugout and plays the movie of his World Series-winning season back to him on double speed. 

He feels nothing. 

He signs.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this pic of Kins hugging his kids after the WS win and it's cute and emotional and that's the moment I'm referencing : [click click](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/ian-kinsler-of-the-boston-red-sox-celebrates-with-his-family-after-picture-id1054824884).
> 
> Sorry Bootsie.
> 
> Title from that one Belle And Sebastian song.


End file.
